


measure of doubt

by spookyfoot



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alien Culture, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Fake Mythology, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post War, S8 what S8?, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic, alien courting rituals, communication? idk her, intergalactic diplomacy, platonically imagining the rest of ur life with ur best bro, this is a kitchen sink fic and i threw in my whole refrigerator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 03:46:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17911406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyfoot/pseuds/spookyfoot
Summary: The recipe for love is: two parts pining disasters, three parts extra-terrestrial diplomacy, one part fake dating. Shake, don't stir.





	1. tell me what you hope to say

**Author's Note:**

  * For [perfectlyrose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfectlyrose/gifts).



> HAPPY SHEITHLENTINES KELSEY! you asked for fake dating, with some mutual pining, either as an AU or within a canon-verse situation, protective and/or possessive sheith, or them taking care of each other or trying to spoil the other, love confessions and/or first kisses. 
> 
> I ALSO LOVE FAKE DATING which means this turned into an absolute monster. but i tried to fit in as many of your requests as i could, and had a lot of fun doing it! 
> 
> many many thanks to:  
> -verity and lorna for beta reading  
> -everyone in the group chat for cheering me on  
> -bron, thank u for being my rock, YOU ROCK
> 
> i hope you enjoy!

0.

“Shiro, it's Keith,” Keith said, as though Shiro wouldn't recognize him. Shiro recognizes Keith like his own heartbeat—recognized him barely conscious and strapped to a Garrison medical table. Of course he knows it's Keith—well, it is and it isn’t. His hair is longer, his are shoulders broader, and his jaw is sharper—changes too obvious and overwhelming compared to the time elapsed between their last meeting. But still, Shiro knows it's him. He doesn’t know who the tall Galran woman with a Blade of Mamora uniform, or the gigantic space wolf are, but he trusts Keith to explain.

When Keith climbs out of the ship it hits Shiro all over again. The way time has carved Keith’s features into something unfamiliar and a little more alien. Like a stair he failed to see in time, Shiro trips over his words. He catches himself, but stumbles over the same steps, and then Keith's introducing him to his mom and Romelle and telling them about travelling through the quantum abyss and finding a colony of Alteans, about Lotor—

It wasn't something that Shiro had time to think about. At least, not between the revelations about Lotor, the fight at the cloning facility about the plea in Keith’s eyes, his choked _I love you_ even as Shiro held a knife to his throat.  Especially not after finding himself in a body a few degrees off of familiar, sorting through two sets of memories  where both were too tangible to throw the other completely into doubt. They caught their breath on backwater moons and barren asteroids, trying to figure out all the ways the universe might have changed in the time they’d been missing. That was more important. _My feelings can wait_ , Shiro told himself. 

After Voltron arrived on Earth, it was hard not to notice the way other people looked at Keith. There was admiration, yes—and well deserved—but there was something else there, too. Something about the way that their eyes always seemed to linger on his lips, seemed to fall a little lower than they should as Keith walked away.

 _You’re just imagining it_ , Shiro tells himself. While he’s better at accepting the reality of the world around him than he was a few months ago, he can’t deny that part of him is still unsteady, still questioning if what he’s seeing is really what’s there. 

(It’s only natural, after everything.

The bright purple-black of the infinite astral abyss where he spent too much time away from anything solid at all.)

Shiro tries not to think about it any of his feelings too hard. How he feels about Keith is one of those things his mind rejects examining closely, where the full picture is clear only from afar. 

It’s not a real problem. Until it is. 

i.

Shiro and Keith returned to the Atlas, after a particularly exhausting, but ultimately successful mission on Illium, in a sleek, two person cruiser. Keith declined taking Black; _it’s better if we have two people who can pilot_ , which pulled at Shiro twice over. It’s as much a reminder that he’s no longer Black’s paladin as it is an indication that Keith values his skills. Bittersweet to the core. 

Shiro still said _yes_. 

Atlas has served as something like the Blade of Marmora’s temporary home base, as well as Voltron’s. With Earth on the right track to recover—thrive, really—Romelle, the MFEs, and the Holts joined them, making allies and spreading peace. The war took away so much; none of them were willing to leave the new family it’d given them. 

Along the way, they’d run into potential recruits. These were usually deserters from the Galran military. Many times, they’ve heard whispers of the Blades, but either ended up with the rebels or scattered along the far fringes of the universe. Deserters usually stuck to distant, backwater moons and attempt survival, keeping one step ahead of the Empire’s reach.

Needless to say, the Blades have more interested parties than they could have anticipated only a year earlier, and as an organization composed of primarily half Galra who’d been shunned and degraded for their mixed heritage, they have a keen interest in bridging cultural divides. To show the world what the Galra could be rather than what they had been. To show them what they were willing to be. 

To reclaim pieces of Galran culture other than warfare. 

For the most part, the Blades are making do with what space the Atlas has. Both the Blades and Voltron are trying to build alliances, so asking potential Interplanetary Alliance members if they’ll give up resources to a Galran group still feels too uncomfortably familiar to most of the Alliance members to be a viable suggestion. 

Compared to the stations they’d had scattered across the stars, the Blade of Marmora’s space on the Atlas isn’t much, but Shiro’s just grateful that having them here means Keith has another reason to stay close. Keith had followed Shiro across the stars, across any number of galaxies and light years. With the war over, it somehow feels natural for Shiro to do the same; to follow Keith wherever he ends up, without question.

The door of their cruiser whooshes open. Keith loses no time making his way out of the hatch and into the hanger, where Blades and Alliance members are lingering hunched over crates of supplies, or clustered around datapads and holoprojections. It’s a regular picture of interspecies cooperation.

A ripple of admiring murmurs breaks out as Keith and Shiro pass by. It’s not like Shiro can blame them. Keith’s always been talented,  impressive, but there’s something about the cut of his cheekbones—the strong line of his jaw counterbalanced by the bony curve of his neck, the soft, vulnerable hollow of his throat. Something about the way that his hair curls around his ears where it slips from his braid, the messy flush that dusts the top of his cheekbones after a good spar, the way his chest heaves beneath Shiro’s hands—

Keith somehow manages to look even more beautiful when he’s grunting and covered in sweat. Actually, when Shiro thinks about that sentence, maybe it’s not so surprising he finds that version of Keith attractive when he finds every version of Keith attractive. Especially versions of Keith that remind him what Keith looks like when he’s biting his lip, a flush high in his cheeks from the exertion—

No. Maybe it really isn’t so surprising at all. 

Maybe the really surprising thing is that they’d managed to get the mission alone together.  It’s been a while since it was just the two of them. 

It seems like it might be a while before they get a mission again, just the two of them. 

“Keith,” says Thaylis, a tall and slender, but well-muscled diplomat. He wanders over and places a proprietary hand on Keith’s shoulder. Shiro flexes his fingers around air. He knows how Keith’s shoulder muscles feel with his palm curled around them. It’s dumb and it’s not like the two of them invented shoulder touches, but some part of Shiro thinks of that as his thing with Keith. As his shoulder.

“Oh, hey,”  Keith says, slow and unsure. His brows draw together. 

“Great work on the mission. Seems like the visit to Illium went well, they’ve already contacted the Alliance about sharing resources. You really charmed them,” Thaylis says, leaning in closer. 

Keith shrugs, just enough that Thaylis’ hand falls from his shoulder. “Just doing our job,” he says, shooting Shiro a smile. It’s incredible and alarming how a momentary flash of teeth can make Shiro’s heart feel like it’s stopped and started again all within the space of a few seconds. 

“Yeah, just doing our job,” Shiro echoes. He angles his body towards Keith and Keith mirrors him, actively making this a conversation between the three of them rather than just a one on one. 

Keith gives him a small smile, before he lets his face fold back into a frown. He shifts onto the balls of his feet. “Speaking of which, we should go shower.” 

“Ah, I see,” Thaylis says, like there’s some sort of hidden meaning to Keith’s statement. “Just make sure you’re back just in time for the meeting.” Thaylis closes the gap between him and Keith. 

“Meeting?” Keith raises a brow. 

It’s the first Shiro’s heard of it, too. 

“Yes, your fellow paladin, Princess Allura, asked that all of us be in the eastern conference room in one varga.”

“All right,” Keith says. He pushes a swear-damp lock of hair back from his face,  biceps flexing under the skin tight fabric of his Marmora armor. “If we wanna make it in time, we should go,” he says, walking towards Shiro and bumping their shoulders together as he passes. He walks a few feet then pauses, and half turns, just visible in profile. “Come on, old timer, the showers are this way.” 

If Shiro’s shower is cold, well, there’s no reason that Keith has to know. He’s had a lot practice recently keeping those sorts of thoughts to himself and his hand. 

ii.

Shiro suffers through Keith in a shower and then Keith in a towel that does nothing to hide the long, lean lines of his legs. And then he suffers through a jerk off session that’s a lot faster and a lot guiltier than he’d prefer. 

But most of them have been that flavor, lately. 

Keith’s waiting for him in the hallway, hair loose and curling around his neck, the collar of his shirt damp, a flush still high in his cheeks. “Are you feeling okay?”

His nose is wrinkled, adorably so, and it makes Shiro want to place a kiss to the tip of it. This never used to be a problem. But ever since Keith came back from the space whale, broad and lean, with a wisdom behind his eyes that still took Shiro by surprise even now, it’s been hard for Shiro to keep his feelings under wraps—from both Keith and himself. That doesn’t stop Shiro from trying, though. He’s an expert at hand to hand, battle tactics, and repression. This requires at least two of the three.

Shiro has kept entire parts of himself under wraps for the sake of the universe. He’d never to admit it to anyone other than the man in question, but if it came down to Keith versus the universe, there’s no doubt in his mind that Keith would win. 

That Keith would always win. 

Still. He’s here to make sure that the Coalition—that the universe—can keep moving forward. He’s lucky enough that the gets to do so at Keith’s side but that’s no guarantee that he’ll be able to hold that place forever. 

He thinks of Thaylis’s hand resting on Keith’s shoulder just over an hour ago.

No. That’s no guarantee at all. 

_____________________________________

Keith takes a chair in the meeting, making sure that there’s an empty one for Shiro to his right. Shiro stays where he is, but he’d have to be blind not to notice the way that Keith shifts his chair closer to his own throughout the meeting, dark hair falling free over the red collar of his paladin uniform.

Despite what Matt’s repeatedly insisted about the both of them, Shiro’s not actually blind. 

Keith looks a little distant and dazed as the rest of the Blades and Coalition members are filter into the room. Matt meets Shiro’s eyes, shifts his gaze to Keith for a moment, then swivels back to Shiro and arches a brow. Shiro shakes his head but can’t keep from clenching his jaw.

“Thanks for saving us seats,” Pidge says, sliding into a seat just across the table. “Thoughtful.” 

“It’s not musical chairs, Pidge, there are enough for everyone, “ Keith says. To Shiro’s right, he shifts closer into the space between them. This is nothing out of the ordinary. Shiro and Keith always sit next to one another at meetings. 

Everything follows the usual pattern—until Thaylis takes the space on the other side of Keith. It’s too close for Shiro’s comfort, especially after all that happened earlier this morning, Shiro finds himself at odds with his surroundings, unsure of how to deal with what’s happening. Of course, it’s not Keith that’s the problem. He trusts Keith more than anyone. That’s never been the issue. 

The issue is thinking about why Thaylis’ sitting so close to Keith bothers Shiro this much.

The other paladins are still giving one another significant looks that Shiro doesn’t care to read. And then Commander Holt and Iverson step up to the front of the room with Kolivan, Krolia, and Allura, and there’s no time to keep thinking about the seating arrangements. Which is fine. Shiro’s got enough emotional compartmentalization skills to create an entire passenger train.

By the end of the meeting, Keith’s near enough that Shiro can feel the warmth that’s radiating from his skin. He’s used to being close to Keith, but the distance between them holds a different sort of weight, these days. Shiro flexes his fingers, feels Keith’s hand shift to rest just above his knee, of the leg he didn’t even realize he was shaking. 

When Shiro turns too look, Keith’s got one brow quirked upwards, question clear in his eyes. 

_You okay?_

The thing is that Shiro’s been saying _yes_  to that question for as long as he remembers. The thing is, Keith’s the only person around who can tell when his _yes_  really means _no_.

Shiro just gives him a little shrug. It’s not really an answer, but it’s enough of one that Keith will let him make it through the meeting without dragging a real one out of him. Out of the corner of his eye, Shiro sees Matt nudging Lance in the side with his elbow before leaning over to whisper in his ear, like they’re trying to get away with passing notes in class. 

They don’t. Moments later, just as Kolivan’s finished describing the Blade of Marmora’s relief efforts, Allura turns to them with an arched brow. “Is there something that the two of you would like to share with the rest of us?” Although her tone is proper, every inflection charged with innocence, Shiro knows her well enough not to be fooled. 

“Just talking about how wonderful it is that everyone’s been so enthusiastic about exchanging cultures,” Matt says, with a look that would better suit him ironically polishing his non-existent halo. 

“Yes, it’s really quite wonderful,” Allura says, with more gravity that Matt deserves, now or ever. 

“It is,” Thaylis says. He turns towards Keith and reaches into his pocket to pull out a small pouch, which he offers to Keith. “On that note, Paladin Keith, since you’ve done such a wonderful job spreading the message that there’s more to the Galra than conquest, I thought you might like this. It’s a traditional Galran dessert, historically eaten at diplomatic conferences, as a sign of trust and unity.” His tone drips with saccharine sentiment—but maybe that’s just Shiro. 

“Oh. Well,  I am hungry—so, thanks,” Keith says, clearly not thinking much of it. He opens the pouch and pulls out something that looks a little like a red bean bun if the pastry were green. Just as he’s about to pop a piece into his mouth, he pauses, breaks the bun in half and turns towards Shiro. “Hey, Shiro, do you want some too?” 

“Keith—” Allura says from the front of the room. Krolia puts a hand on her arm, stopping her before she finishes her sentence. Shiro’s not sure what to make of the expression on Krolia’s face, but the closest he can get is “conflicted.”

Shiro doesn’t even get a chance to say _yes_ before Keith breaks a little off and pops some into his mouth, almost as a joke—except the way that his fingers brush Shiro’s lips is anything but a joke to Shiro. 

Shiro can’t think about anything else for the next five minutes of the meeting. But then he remembers who he is, that he’s a professional, that he’s known Keith forever and while he may be having to deal with some new feelings for Keith, he still is a competent man who’s good at his job. Or at the very least, Shiro’s good at compartmentalization.

“Since we’ve already broached the subject of diplomacy, it’s time for me to bring up the primary reason we brought all of you together for this meeting. We’ve had so many new planets joining the Coalition lately, bringing us so much closer to achieving sustainable peace for the known universe. However, as much as we’ve been focused on reviving Altean culture and other elements of Galran culture, it’s important that the other planets who’ve joined our cause are able to celebrate and share their own heritage as well. Which is why I’d like to propose reviving a joint Altean-Galran celebration, called the Viala festival,” Allura glances around the table. “Traditionally, the Viala Festival was held at the mid-point of every decaphoebe. We’d throw a huge feast with dancing and an open air market, inviting our allies from both distant and neighboring solar system as a way to strengthen our ties, share the bounty of Altea, and to give our people a chance to celebrate our culture—and the way that all cultures can come together.”

“Right. So what does that actually mean for us?” Griffin asks. His shoulders are square against the back of his chair, somehow making good posture seem like an insufferable insult.

“Should all of you agree, Atlas, her crew, and her passengers, will head back to Earth to start preparations. Once celebrations draw closer, the Atlas would host a large number of diplomats from around the universe,” Allura says, looking around the room. “Each member of the Coalition would have a booth at the open air market in order to share their own traditions and culture. In the future, other planets would play host, making it a yearly celebration and commitment to lasting peace.” 

“So it’s just a festival?” the representative from Qualire asks, “a week-long market?”

“No, it’s both the market and also a gala, where all of the guests show up in masks. The idea is that, in the spirit of intergalactic peace, we celebrate our similarities as well as our differences. By concealing our identities, we make the gesture that we’re all on an equal playing field, sitting with one another at the same table, enjoying the same good fortune and prosperity that comes with putting down our swords for peace.” 

“I think that sounds wonderful, Princess,” Lance says, looking lovestruck but genuine. “And I think we’re all up to the challenge.” 

It seems like everyone agrees, because, for a meeting that includes so many diplomats, the resolution passes quickly and with resounding support. Allura stands at the front of the room, gazing at all of them, flush with happiness. “Wonderful. We’ll have to get started immediately, and we need to make sure that we’re mingling with all of the others that are there. It’s important that the Viala festival is true a cultural exchange.” 

From there, Allura and Kolivan ask that the representatives of each planet meet with them to discuss participation in the festival. The rest of the room naturally divides into small groups, each buzzing with ideas for their booths and their costumes. 

Well. Except that even though Thaylis should be in line to speak with Allura, he hasn’t moved at all. He swivels his chair towards Keith, fast enough that Keith startles just a little when their knees knock together, caught off guard. “It seems like a fantastic idea, don’t you think?” he says. 

Keith doesn’t seem to be able to make sense of the way that he’s leaning into his space, space that other people usually respect. He leans away, but it’s not very subtle. Shiro suspects that the concept of personal space is lost on Thaylis. Purposefully. 

“Yeah,” Keith says. He pauses. “It’ll be a good way to strengthen the ties between Coalition members.” 

“I completely agree.” Thaylis smiles like he’s looking at a mouse he’s cornered. “Which is why I was wondering, would you like to come to the ball?” 

There’s a moment where Keith’s brows draw together. He looks back at Thaylis. “Yeah, I mean, I’ll be there as the leader of Voltron.” 

Thaylis laughs, undeterred, but Shiro takes a sick sort of pleasure in the fact that his voice sounds a little brittle. “No. I meant as my date,” he says, just as the room goes silent. 

Keith stares, eyes wide, panic flashing across his face, but subtly so—only the people who are close to him would recognize what that expression really means. Under his palm, Shiro feels the muscles beneath Keith’s shoulder blades go tense, spoiling for a fight. He opens his mouth and— “I have a boyfriend!” Keith says. 

And then he turns to Shiro and pulls him in for a kiss. Right on the lips. 


	2. and in between, it's never as it seems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > “Since we’ve got that taken care of, I was wondering if any of you had suggestions for the marketplace—”
>> 
>> “Gotten what taken care of, Allura?” Keith sneaks a look at Shiro. His head’s tucked in towards his chest and the tips of his ears are red. Keith frowns. Shiro can’t afford to catch a cold. 
>> 
>> “That you and Shiro are dating. Officially.”
>> 
>> “Congratulations to the happy couple,” Hunk says, eyes misting over. Keith’s going to hide his best wrenches. Hunk may have convinced everyone across the galaxy that he’s d everyone he's kind and cuddly but he'll drag any of the paladins halfway across the galaxy when he sees an opportunity. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY LOOK WHO'S BACK!!!

# iii.

Keith can’t explain what was going through his mind the whole time that mess was—a thing. A kiss. _The_ kiss. Most likely because there’s no explanation for it—at least not one he wants to hear, or that he hasn’t already turned over in his head so many times that the paper is crumpled, stained, and almost worn through with wear. 

But this was none of that. It was more of a “panic, red alert” than a consistent and intelligible train of thought. If there was even a train in the first place it had jumped the tracks long ago.

There’s a hand on his elbow, the fingers feel clammy and unfamiliar. Keith knows there’s no nice way to say “take your hand off of me” but that doesn’t mean he’s not sorely tempted. He misses the days when he didn’t have to give a shit about being nice. Instead, he feels Shiro’s hand slip between his shoulder blades and he says the only thing that comes to mind in that moment. 

He’s grateful Shiro was a good sport—he always has been ever since he pulled Keith out of a dead end alley of a high school career and called him words like _spit fire_ , and _spirited_. 

Some things never change. Keith could see that Shiro had questions, and plenty of them, but he’d tucked them into a bookbag long enough to play along.

He’d done more than just play along; he’d opened his mouth to Keith, pulled him in close enough that they were chest to chest, that Keith could feel the pounding of Shiro’s heart beating in time with his own. 

It's everything that Keith's never let himself dream about, but it's also the worst thing he could have possibly done.  Keith trusts himself to act on instinct when it comes to combat situations. Emotional ones are a different story.

Well. Except, not entirely in this case. Because someone got the pages mixed up—

A dark, slender hand with long tapered fingers waves in front of his eyes before he can flip to the last page and find out the end of the story.

Allura’s fingers may be long and elegant but her grips gives the quintessence cuffs they slap on Fire of Purification insurgents a run for their money. 

“Keith, I'm terribly sorry to intrude, but, do you have any idea who that is?” says Allura as she pulls him to one side, a terrifyingly fixed smile stretched across her face.

Keith has a feeling this is a trick question the second the words leave his mouth.“A member of the Coalition.”

“Yes, but not _just_ a member of the Coalition,” Allura looks pained and exasperated all at once. She glances to the side quickly and then whips her head back, blue eyes focused on Keith, not one hair out of place. “He's also the son of the deposed Obondira of Xielian,” Allura pauses, like those words are supposed to mean anything to Keith. “Half Galra, and up for election as a member of the new Interplanetary Alliance Parliament.”

“Yeah?”

“The Xielian refugees strongly indicated their support for the alliance.” 

The ensuing silence says the rest for her—the opposing party did not.

Allura closes her eyes for a moment before opening them and holding his gaze. “Keith, this is a critical juncture in intergalactic politics. We absolutely _cannot_ afford to have  Thaylis pulling out of the Coalition--the _universe_ cannot afford it.  Especially not with the, what was it that you called it? The masquerade?—especially not with the masquerade coming up so soon. It's the biggest display of interplanetary camaraderie since Earth opened its borders to refugees. Yes, it looked good when Earth opened its atmosphere and took in a thousand new refugees, but don’t think for a second that anyone on the council doesn’t know it was done out of necessity. This Masquerade, and all the festivities that go along with it are born out of choice. Out of hope.”

“And…”

Allura sighs and folds her arms over her chest. “We can't have a diplomatic disaster on our hands just because someone wanted to get in your pants.”

Keith flushes even as he holds his ground. “It's not going to—”

“Good. Because it can't.”

“Right. Got it,” Keith says, even though he feels there’s a part of this he’s still missing. 

“We can’t have him offended for _any_ reason,” Allura says. She glances over her shoulder for a moment, so quick and casual it looks like it could have been planned. Maybe it was. Then Allura claps her hands together like they’re all on the same page, even though they’re _definitely not._ “Since we’ve got that taken care of, I was wondering if any of you had suggestions for the marketplace—”

“Gotten _what_ taken care of, Allura?” Keith sneaks a look at Shiro. His head’s tucked in towards his chest and the tips of his ears are red. Keith frowns. Shiro can’t afford to catch a cold. 

“That you and Shiro are dating. Officially.”

“Congratulations to the happy couple,” Hunk says, eyes misting over. Keith’s going to hide his best wrenches. Hunk may have convinced everyone across the galaxy that he’s d everyone he's kind and cuddly but he'll drag any of the paladins halfway across the galaxy when he sees an opportunity.

“At least until the Viala festival is over. I expect to see you two in a paired costume for the gala.” 

There’s no more discussion after that. How could there be, Keith had already announced their “relationship” status to the entire room?

He didn’t have a choice in the matter. But, he thinks, a wave of guilt surging in his gut, it’s not like he gave Shiro one, either. 

 

______________________________

#  **iv.**

 

Shiro goes into a diplomatic meeting pining for his best friend and emerges from it with kiss-swollen lips to find that he and Keith are dating. Or, at least, “dating”, though Shiro doesn’t like to think too hard about the quotation marks surrounding that word because it’s enough to put him on edge. No, that’s a lie, he already feels his feet dangling over the ledge of cliff of all the things he doesn’t let himself think about too closely.

He walks Keith to his room, knowing that they’re going to have to talk about this, and that they need to do it some place that no one’s going to overhear them. It’s not like he hasn’t been in Keith’s room countless times. He’s spent as much time in Keith’s room as his own, and as Keith has in his. Despite the fact that it’s a familiar hallway—and that, frankly, most of the hallways aboard the Atlas look similar—Shiro keeps his eyes trained on every groove of the wall. Every rivet, every place where two pieces of metal come together. Solid. Steady. Unperturbed.

All the things he tells himself he still is. No matter how many times he’s stepped over the threshold to Keith’s room, it’s never been like this. Never been so aware of the space between the two of their bodies, the way his lips sting a little where Keith bit them. This is stepping into Keith’s room knowing exactly what Keith’s lips feel like against his. This is knowing that and not being able to think of anything else, regardless of how hard he tries. 

Silence between the two of them hasn’t been this stilted in years. Keith keys in the code for his room, presses his thumb to the locking mechanism and the door wooshes open. It doesn’t help Shiro settle himself that he knows that if he were to slide his thumb into the same spot, the door would open for him, too. 

_What’s mine is yours. What’s yours is mine._

Shiro’s still tangled in his thoughts as he trails Keith into the room.

Keith fiddles with the collar of his paladin uniform. He gets the top button undone in an instant but his fingers linger on the second, circling around the edges like he’s unsure if he’s predator or prey. “Sorry,” says Keith. His voice is raspy, hoarse with an emotion Shiro can’t point.  

It’s not what Shiro expected. There are more important things between the two of them than apologies. Still, he smooths an appropriate reaction into place, and offers Keith a half smile and a shrug. 

But it doesn’t help. Usually, silence is a comfortable, familiar thing between the two of them, a familiar sweater saved for cozy, rainy days, worn and welcoming. This is something else. This is wanting to start a conversation and find the words caught on the tip of his tongue, unable to settle on a shape. This is returning to you childhood home to find out that the paint on the wall has all been changed and every piece of furniture is now two inches to the left of where it used to be. 

Keith turns away from him, taking off the bright red jacket of his Paladin uniform, revealing the top half of the tight black body suit he wears underneath. Shiro hears the sound of him rummaging for something, but the longer it keeps going the more Shiro feels the need to do something. Do anything. It’s getting harder to stand here and watch Keith’s back muscles ripple under the tight fabric. 

“Something wrong?” Shiro gets up from the bed and makes his way across the room in three quick strides. 

Keith makes a small noise of frustration. It shouldn’t be so cute. “Can’t find a hair tie.” 

“Here.” Shiro pulls one off his wrist and hands it to him.

Keith turns, baring a little more of his long, white throat. Shiro’s breath catches. “Thanks,” Keith says, holding out his hand. Shiro places it in his palm and Keith stretches it between his fingers. 

“Why do you have this?” Keith asks, aiming the rubberband at Shiro’s forehead. It has all the makings of an interrogation except Keith has yet to pull the trigger. 

“Thought you might need one, eventually,” Shiro says. Which is and isn’t the truth. Ever since Keith’s hair grew past his shoulders, Shiro’s made it a point to keep hair ties on him. Keith has literally gone to the ends of the universe for Shiro, and he never asks for anything in return. Shiro knows that he never will. It’s not like Shiro wants the universe to be in that sort of moral peril again, so the most that he can do is small, little things on a day to day basis to let Keith know that he’s there for him, too. 

Keith looks down at his hand with an expression Shiro can’t read. It  flickers away too quickly for Shiro to get a solid hold on it. Like trying to grasp anything in the living world from the astral plane. There’s something about it that pulls at his memories, it’s a hook in scar tissue not even freshly healed. It’s shot through with emotions too prickly and vibrant for him to sort through right now. It’s better if he looks at those feelings when he’s alone. 

“Thanks,” Keith says, hoarse and quiet. He slides his fingers through his hair and quickly separates it into three sections, neatly weaving them together in a braid. Then he reaches around to the zipper at the back of his neck, but it catches on the fabric just beside the seams, stuck. “Fuck. Would you…?” Keith gestures at the zipper. 

“Yeah,” Shiro says with a level of calm he doesn’t feel; his mind and body are screaming him but he pushes it away. It’s fine. He’s had a lot of time to practice. His hand fumbles a little with the zipper which seems too small and too delicate to keep the Paladin under-armor in place.

“Having a little trouble back there?” Shiro can hear the sly smirk tucked in the corner of Keith’s mouth. 

“It’s fine.” Shiro works the zipper free, and pulls it down, baring the smooth, pale skin between Keith’s shoulder blades. 

He closes his eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath, then continues baring inch after inch of cream white skin, crisscrossed with scars that have long turned white. Shiro does not think about how Keith would react if Shiro stopped restraining himself. If he did what he desperately wants to and dropped a kiss there. Just because. 

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lets Keith pull away and tug off the rest of his suit. Shiro turns away and starts back towards the bed, then realizes where exactly he’s heading and thinks better of it. Instead, he claims the overstuffed armchair in the corner, a dark, weird combo of purple and green flowers. It’s always looked like the arms are going to vomit stuffing at any moment. It’s the one Hunk had made Keith buy the last time the Atlas was temporarily docked at the Garrison. Honestly, it’s hideous, especially in a room that’s as spartan as Keith’s. But Shiro’s never sat in it before, because he never felt like he needed to. Not until now. 

He makes himself look away as Keith tugs off the rest of his suit. It’s harder to look away once Keith throws on sleep pants and a shirt that used to be Shiro’s before the Kerberos Mission. He’d noticed it was missing before he left, but it was only now, years later, that he knew where it went. 

Keith flops on the bed with absolutely none of his usual grace, eyes closed and face gone slack. He looks just as tired as Shiro feels. 

He could leave it here, leave it now and just let the both of them fall asleep.

Except there are two elephants in this room and Shiro only has the strength left to ignore one of them. The one that’s been there so long it might as well be his own shadow. The other one has a time limit and is, apparently, critical to the safety of the galaxy. 

“So, I’m your boyfriend,” Shiro says. He tries to inject some humor into his tone but he still can’t help cringing a little at the way that it sounds as soon as it falls from his lips. It sounds anything but casual. At least he has a useful pretext. 

“Yeah. Sorry,” Keith says, turning his head towards the wall. Shiro can’t see his eyes anymore, but there’s a barely visible flush cresting across the top curve of his ears, just visible from where they peek through his hair. It’s intimate, and vulnerable, and the peekaboo look of it makes Shiro feel like it’s something that he’s not entirely entitled to see. 

“You don’t have to say sorry,” Shiro says. 

“I know I just. I didn’t give you a choice,” Keith says, looking guilty. Well, guilty and a little scared, but Shiro’s not sure of _what_. “I know how important that is to you, and that A—people tried to make decisions for you in the past. I never wanted to be one of them.” 

It makes sense. Shiro knows it does. It’s more out of obligation and ease than any sort of real interest. There are few people in Keith’s life that he’s comfortable enough with to let touch him, let alone kiss him. Shiro’s probably number one on that list and it’s not like Keith could pretend to date his mom. As far as options, Shiro’s it. He knows that, he accepts that—even if there’s a stutter step to his heart, thinking of what it’d be like to date Keith. Thinking of the fact that he’ll know _exactly_ what it’s like after the charade is over. 

The clock will strike twelve and their relationship will turn back into a friendship pumpkin, with Shiro’s heart as the only thing that’s made of glass. 

But it’s fine. He’s been a (victorious) gladiator in an alien arena. He’s been through worse than this—this isn’t even bad, if he doesn’t let himself think too long about the fall out. 

It’s fine. Everything will be fine. 

Shiro will keep telling himself that until it’s true. 

 

__________________________________

#  **v.**

 

Keith only lets himself panic after Shiro leaves. “Lets” is a much more generous term than Keith deserves—it implies that he’s got any control over the disaster he started when the opposite is true—the disaster has control over him.

Normally, Keith and Shiro would spend more of the evening together.  They’d watch a movie, do paperwork, maybe fall asleep on the couch (usually Shiro) or with Kosmo (Keith) but tonight Keith’s rooms are quiet.

Even though Keith knows that he's probably transparent to everyone around him, he'll do whatever he has to to grab a few more minutes of Shiro's time. Some part of Keith is always waiting for the people he loves to leave him. It's less intense than it used to be, less of a stone sitting at the bottom of his stomach, full of preemptive hurt and disappointment. But it’s hard to deny that the past 15 years left deep scars. Keith hoards time with Shiro and his mom like the world might take them from him at any moment. And during the war, it hadn't been so wrong to think that. 

They’ve always been stronger together, which meant that whoever could take down a member of their team was guaranteed to give themselves an advantage. Keith may have been preparing to pilot instead of lead a war, but he knew enough to know that striking where you could deal the most damage with a single blow was a tactic they were bound to come up against. 

So Keith did what he could to prepare for the moment that the universe inevitably decided to rip the people he loved the most away from him for good. Or for the moment he did something that pushed them away, that damaged their relationship beyond repair. 

Even though they’re at peace, there were still some fringes of the galaxy where Zarkon sympathizers roam, just waiting for a chance to attack the Coalition wherever they sensed there might be a weakness.

As he gets ready for bed, alone, and earlier than usual, Keith can’t help but wonder if this is it. If this is that moment. If his momentary panic, and the lock on the box he’s always labeled _Feelings For Shiro_ , smashed to pieces without a key, will be the pressure point that breaks their bond. 

After all, it’s not like Keith hasn’t already confessed. He’s already laid his heart, soul, and body on the line. Even though he and Shiro had stolen moments in the Black Lion on their way back to Earth to talk about their fight, Shiro had never mentioned that part. 

As soon as Keith crawls under the covers, he pulls his datapad off the bedside table. The screen is already cluttered with notifications, some of them are from the Paladin group chat that Keith would mute if he weren’t the leader and if Lance and Pidge didn’t somehow just Know (™) every time he’d tried to do so in the past. Keith suspects Pidge slid a special code into Keith’s datapad for that sole purpose.

He scrolls through the messages about costume ideas, speculation about who some of the planets will send, bets over whether Rolo and Nyma will make it out for the occasion, bets over whether any of the visiting diplomats will ask about N-7 (Keith still has _so many_ questions), and a lot of stuff featuring a giant space weasel Keith’s mostly able to skim over. It fills the silence, the empty spaces—if only a little. 

Except—wait. 

He scrolls back up to the costume conversation and, yeah, right there. Fuck. Allura’s sent him an incredibly pointed private message saying that she expects he and Shiro will show up in paired outfits. Which is not something he thought about—aside for a reflexive eye roll—but now it’s all he can think about; the two of them, standing in front of everyone they know—and many they don’t—looking like a matched set. Like this isn’t some sort of political gesture he roped Shiro into because the price of saying no might be universal peace. 

Like they belong together.

The hitch is this: anyone who’s ever met Shiro would know that he’d never place his own comfort above the good of the universe. He never has, and he never will. So no matter what Shiro said earlier, Keith can’t help but think that Shiro didn’t have a choice in any of this.

Keith’s the one that took that away from him. 

There’s one more message—from his mom. Apparently she’s been called away on an urgent mission and had to leave just after the meeting. While Keith knows that there’s no helping it and that part of him expected she’d have to leave again eventually, he can’t help but feel a little cheated. She’s the one person he could have talked with about the...the Shiro Situation. She saw enough while they were riding through the quantum abyss to know exactly how Keith feels about Shiro; exactly what Shiro means to him. 

Keith stops scrolling and the datapad screen goes dark.

He lies in bed with 100 pounds of space wolf snoring on his chest. He doesn’t sleep. His eyes stay wide open until the Atlas’s artificial lights wash his ceiling with a facsimile of the sunrise. There’s a knock on his door. 

“Keith?”

It’s Shiro. 

Fuck.

__________________________________

#  **vi.**

 

Shiro doesn’t sleep well, and considering he’s woken up in a cold sweat at least twice a night since the war ended, his standards for a good night's sleep are way lower than other people. As he gets dressed, Shiro tells himself that it’s just like any other morning. It’s the usual: meet Keith and walk to breakfast together. 

They always take a shortcut only Shiro can access as Atlas’s captian, setting stupid challenges for on another, like who can eat the most slices of french toast at breakfast or if Keith can use his mouth to catch ten Cocoa Puffs in a row. It started as a way to grab time for just the two of them whenever they could, and it’s settled into a routine, one constant part of a life that’s done everything to throw wrenches into Shiro’s equilibrium into every chance that it gets. He savors the sense of normalcy of routine, whenever he can hold onto one for a moment before it slips through his fingers. Even the dumb challenges they thow at one another on the way. When it’s just the two of them, it feels like he’s still the person he was when his hair was almost as dark as Keith’s.

Shiro runs his flesh hand along the hallway panelling more to remind himself _when_ he is than where. The hallways of the Atlas aren’t that much to look at in and of themselves. They’re sleek and functional, with a row of lights overhead that does its best to simulate daylight. Atlas was designed to give its residents some illusion of a daily cycle even when they’re in the darkest depths of space. Shiro is very familiar with clinging to illusions.

Keith’s suite of rooms is just a few meters from his own, but he takes a little longer than usual to get there. There are things that they didn’t really talk about last night—they’ve got to agree on their dating history and on their physical boundaries. They need to find passable answers to questions Shiro has that he can’t just pile up with all the others he’s determined to let gather dust in the corners of his mind. Today’s the day they start fake dating for real. 

What a disaster. 

The sentence sounds so wrong in Shiro’s head, it makes him pause; not because he can’t imagine dating Keith—because he has, many times—but because the thought of faking anything with Keith is so foreign to the way their relationship works. 

The shadow of Keith’s door frame looks foreboding. It never looked like this any of the 1000 other times Shiro knocked. Shiro’s good at avoiding the things he doesn’t want to talk about, or talking around them when outright avoidance is impossible. But, not right now. 

Usually, Keith’s already there, ready and waiting, by the time Shiro gets to his room. This morning, the doorway is empty, and after a few minutes, there’s still no Keith stumbling out, hair in a messy braid, uniform a little crooked, with a perfect smile. Shiro leans in close and listens at the door but there’s only silence.

For a moment, he lets his hand hover over the keypad, before deciding that Keith gave him unfettered access for a reason. He places his hand on the scanner and heads inside just as soon as the door opens. He doesn’t expect to see Keith still laying in bed. He sits up, hair falling out of his braid a mess from rubbing against the pillow all night. “Keith?”

“Shiro?” Keith says. He sounds a little hoarser than usual, but it’s likely that he’s just woken up so Shiro’s not going to look at that too closely. Probably more for his own slowly crumbling sense of self preservation.  “What are you doing here?” Keith seems to realize why Shiro’s here faster than Shiro can respond, because he follows up with “what time is it?” right on the heels of his first question. He grabs his datapad off of his nightstand, brows drawing together when the screen lights up. “Oh, fuck. Let me just get dressed really fast.”

“That’s okay, I have some stuff that I wanted to talk to you about, anyways,” Shiro says as Keith sprints out of bed and heads right for his closet.

“Like what?” Keith pulls one of his usual black shirts from the shelves, carelessly discarding his sleep shirt on the floor. Shiro only gets a quick glimpse of a pale sliver of Keith’s back before he makes himself look away. A sliver is all he’d probably get even if he kept looking. Keith is quick and efficient; he’s already halfway through pulling the shirt over his head. He snags a pair of pants from another shelf, and turns towards Shiro. “I know that this isn’t your—our—choice but—”

Shiro can’t take the look of guilt and sorrow on Keith’s face. Especially because he’s the one who put it there.  “No, Keith, it’s fine. I told you last night that it’s fine, because it is. This is—I thought we should talk about ground rules.”

Keith pauses, a few fingers tucked under the waistband of his sleep pants. “What do you mean?” 

Shiro runs a hand through his hair. “Well. We’re dating. Or a least people think we are.”

“Right, that’s the whole point of this,” Keith pulls off his pants in one fluid motion. Shiro chokes on his own spit. “People are supposed to think we’re dating.” 

“Which means they expect us to do things that people who are dating do. You know, like touching one another.”

“We already touch one another all the time,” Keith says. It’s innocent but it still brings a little bit of color to Shiro’s cheeks. 

“Not like that. I mean, holding hands, kissing, that sort of thing.” 

“Oh.” Shiro doesn’t know what to make of his expression. Keith looks down and then turns away to grab a jacket. It’s not the red and yellow one that features in so many of Shiro’s memories. It would probably rip if he tried to stretch it across his shoulders now.

“That’s what I wanted to talk about. We have to decide what we’re comfortable with,” Shiro says, fighting his own discomfort. Somehow this is even worse than it was when he imagined it, but then again, he hadn’t imagined that Keith would be partially clothed the entire time. Even he’s not that cruel to himself. Reality one-ups self masochism once again.

Keith tugs on his jeans, though to be honest, Shiro’s not sure they even _qualify_ as jeans. They’re black and made of some sort of futuristic fabric that doesn’t have any seams, not to mention, they’re tight enough that they might as well be the paladin undersuit he wore yesterday. He undoes his braid, combs through his hair with his fingers, and then starts weaving it back together. “Hand holding is fine. If we need to kiss, then we kiss. I’m fine with it as long as you are.” 

Shiro ignores the little pang in his chest. “Okay, well, I guess we’ll see about that as we go.” 

“Going into battle without a plan, you’re getting bold in your old age,” Keith says, a hint of a smile curling at the corners of his lips. It’s enough for Shiro to ignore all the parts of him that are a little disappointed with Keith’s response. He falls into their old, familiar pattern quick enough.

“Hey, watch it, punk.” 

“Watch what? You can’t do anything to the leader of Voltron,” Keith says. He slides on his jacket and holds out a hand to Shiro. “Ready?” 

Shiro stares at it for a second before lacing their fingers together. “Ready,” he says, even as he’s not sure it’s completely true. 

It doesn’t matter though. Soon enough, Shiro can’t help but lean into the illusion. They walk into breakfast that morning with Shiro’s arm looped around Keith’s waist rather than a hand curled around his shoulder. It feels more natural than it has any right to, but that may have something to do with how many times Shiro’s run over this exact scenario in his mind. Keith doesn’t even seem to notice the weight of Shiro’s hand on his body, doesn’t even seem to be aware of the places where their bodies come into contact in the way that Shiro is. 

Other than that though, it’s not so different than the usual. They get in line for their food together, Keith talking about the ideas he has for making their relief efforts go more smoothly, eyes bright and full of passion. Shiro’s so engrossed, he doesn’t even notice when they get to the front of the line until Keith falls silent. But it’s only for a moment before he lets out a rough, all too infrequent chuckle. “Forgot where we were?” 

“Something like that,” Shiro says, turning around to grab a tray. They get their breakfast and go sit down with the rest of the paladins, well aside from Allura, who, according to Pidge, had to meet with the Puigian representative before breakfast, before they made the trip back to their planet to get their festival booth prepared.  Matt and Lance seem to have found common ground—torturing the two of them. They make exaggerated kissy faces at the two of them, lips pursed, even though Shiro can tell they’re trying not to break out into laughter and ruin the effect.

That’s when Shiro realizes that this is one thing that they failed to talk about. He’s not sure if they’re supposed to play it up for their friends or not. But Keith is right there next to him pressing his thigh right along side Shiro’s and Shiro can feel the warmth of his skin through his pants and suddenly that’s the last thing on his mind. The last thing that really matters to him. They can figure it out later. Shiro’s only so strong, and there’s something about leaning into the illusion, here, in front of their friends, that makes it harder to resist. That makes it almost feel real. 

Allura takes the seat next to Shiro, plunking her tray down on the table. “I see you all started without me,” she says in her best stern tone, but the twinkle in her eyes says otherwise. 

“Just because you got roped into boring, bullshit diplomatic duties doesn’t mean the rest of us have to suffer,” Pidge says. Romelle nods in agreement, mouth already full of a terrifying mix of the Atlas canteen’s sugariest cereals. Shiro automatically decides that as much as he enjoys Romelle’s company most of the time he definitely doesn’t want to spend the day with her—at least not once the sugar hits her system. Romelle is enough on her own without the added energy boost.

“Well, you’re all about to get roped into ‘boring, bullshit diplomatic duties’ too,” Allura says. “We have to prepare for the gala, so I thought it best if we divide and conquer.”  Somehow she manages to make turning their casual breakfast into a small diplomatic meeting feel entirely natural and Shiro can’t help but be impressed even though he wants to revel in how close Keith is sitting to him, how much he needs to savor this now before it inevitably ends.

“Pidge, you’ll be working with your mother and father regarding the indigenous flora and fauna of Earth, Lance, you’ll be working with Rizavi to compile a representative sampling of Earth’s cultures—”

“—wait like a research paper?” Lance says. 

Allura continues serene as ever, like she didn’t even hear him. “Hunk, obviously you’ll be in charge of a similar assignment, but for making sure the different types of regional cuisines are all represented at the feast.” 

“Nice,” Hunk says. Shiro sees the way his eyes go a little glassy, like he’s already planning the menu. There’s no doubt in Shiro’s mind that Hunk will find a way to make sure that their visitors get a delicious sampling of most—if not all—of the types of food Earth has to offer.

Allura turns towards Shiro with a smile that somehow manages to look more threatening than benevolent. Or maybe it’s the way that her eyes flicker downwards for a moment, landing on his and Keith’s linked hands, resting on top of Shiro’s left thigh. “Shiro, you and Keith will be in charge of making sure Galra culture is represented—the parts of it that the empire tried to bury under ten thousand years of warfare.”

“Hey, why do they get to work together?” Lance pouts. 

Allura looks devilishly pleased, “I simply thought our love birds could use it as a sort of honeymoon period.” 

From their mutual silence, it’s clear that neither he or Keith knows how to respond to that. 

That’s enough to make the rest of the table go silent, exchange glances with one another and then break into laughter. 

“I can’t believe you cheated me out of throwing you both bachelor parties,” Matt says, shaking his head. 

“Hey, if anyone’s going to throw them bachelor parties, it’s me,” Lance elbows Matt out of the way, like this is a children’s ballet recital and he’s trying to take over center stage.

Even in profile, Shiro can see Keith rolling his eyes. “We’re not having a bachelor party because we’re dating not married.” 

“Sure, buddy, whatever you say,” Hunk says, with a smile that says _you’re so cute when you think you’re right_. 

“Et tu, Hunk?” Shiro says. He grabs his and Keith’s empty trays, Keith rises seamlessly at the same time. 

“You’re just proving his point!” Matt calls at their backs as they walk away.

Shiro doesn’t let himself think about whether Matt’s right or wrong.  


____________________________

# vii.

 

Keith figures that it’s best to start their assignment right away and that the first person they should talk to is his mom. 

But he can’t. Krolia’s on a mission where the details are too sensitive to share in writing. Aside from the fact that she’s not able to accept transmissions aside from emergencies while she’s gone. 

As much as Keith’s struggling with the whole “pretending to date Shiro when he wishes he were actually dating Shiro” thing, his emotions don’t meet the qualifications for sending her a message. 

He can admit to himself that it still sucks, though. There are other places that they can go for that information, though, so they go to Coran who directs them to a literal library planet. 

Much like Alexander the Great and Napoleon, the Galra had hoarded the histories and informational archives of the civilizations they conquered. Napoleon established France’s National Archives and Lotor created the Universal Archives. Not every subjugated world got their histories preserves in the Universal Archives. But some did. 

Although the Galra culture is very much alive, there were too many pieces of it that had been discarded along the way like a snake’s skin, deemed ill fitting and irrelevant when there was an entire universe there to be conquered. The Blades had hoarded those pieces, in the hopes that one day, when they’d ended Zarkon’s reign, they’d find their place in Galra culture again. 

“It’s a beautiful place, despite the bloody history,” Coran tells them. 

“Got it,” Shiro says.

“If you see some blood on the books, don’t be alarmed! From what I've heard it's a traditional Galran method of preservation. Don't worry if there's blood on the tables either. It's old. Probably,” says Coran. 

With those...comforting…words in mind, Shiro and Keith make plans to take the cruiser out—the more time they have to prepare, the better, and away from prying eyes they won’t have to pretend. 

Keith should feel relieved that he won’t constantly be playing with an open flame next to an emotional vault of dynamite. He doesn’t.

Shiro’s hand is a gentle pressure at the small of his back as they make their way through the halls is equal parts exciting and comforting. Touch has always been part of the way they communicate with one another, but now it’s a double edged sword; savoring the physical conversation but always a little afraid that his body will say too much. 

“It shouldn’t be a long flight,” Shiro says once they get to the hangar. He walks over to a console and brings up a map of the system they’re heading to. “Looks like the Qualion Asteroid belt runs right through the shortest path there.” There’s a smile on his face that brings a matching one to Keith’s. 

“Admiral Shirogane, are you suggesting what I think you are?” Keith says, tone dripping with false horror. 

Shiro arranges his face into what Keith _knows_ is his best innocent look. “I’d never.” 

“You’d also never teach a minor how to jump off a cliff, I’m sure,” Keith says, leaning in closer to elbow Shiro in the side. 

“Don’t you two look cozy,” a voice rings out from the back of the hangar Keith turns and sees Thaylis walking towards them, analytical gaze sweeping the two of them from head to toe. Keith automatically puts a little distance between himself and Shiro, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t—except, right now, this is exactly what he’s supposed to be doing. 

“Ambassador Thaylis,” Shiro says. Keith’s rarely, if ever, heard him sound so cold. 

“Admiral Shirogane,” Thaylis replies, voice sounding equally frosty. 

Keith looks between the two of them. He doesn’t mind Thaylis in and of himself except for the fact that he’s the one that they have to placate in order to avoid an intergalactic incident. Okay, so maybe he does mind him. He leans in closer to Shiro who hooks an arm around Keith’s waist, warm and tight and comforting. It feels like an anchor, keeping him exactly where he needs to be to make it through this conversation. 

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Shiro says, tone still at war with his words. 

Thaylis’s gaze has shifted entirely towards Keith. “I was hoping to speak with Keith.” 

Keith looks between the two of them and then back at the star map, still blinking gold behind them. “I’m sorry Thaylis, it’ll have to wait.”

“We’ve got a strict flight window,” Shiro adds, turning around to send the necessary flight information to their ship with a few nimble strokes of his fingers. Keith isn’t proud of the way he spends a little longer than he needs to looking at Shiro’s hands. 

“I see,” Thaylis says. He doesn’t sound pleased about it at all, and Keith know that it’s going to be a problem, later. Once they’re up in the air, he’ll have to see about sending a message to Allura and seeing what they can do. They can’t have Thaylis making this into more of a thing than it already is. 

“We’ll see you when we get back,” Keith says. “And at the Gala.” 

That’s a mistake, Thaylis’s face goes a little tight at the mention of the Gala. Another thing Keith will have to deal with later. 

Right now, Keith’s got a flight to catch, one that, for many reasons, feels like it’s been years in the making. 

At the very least, it’s something that he’s dreamed about for years. 

Keith knows that nothing gold can stay, that all good things must come to an end, eventually. Still, that doesn’t mean he’s strong enough to resist enjoying it while it lasts. This may be something that was the result of a dumb and desperate impulse but he’s going to make the most of it while he can. 

The only thing that nags at the back of his mind is the idea that Shiro’s doing this out of some sort of misplaced sense of honor and that all Keith is doing is vicariously taking advantage of his kindness. 

But then he and Shiro are on the ship, preparing for take-off, and after that, it’s nothing but the two of them and the stars.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u want to come join me in danmei hell all are welcome


	3. if you build yourself a myth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to the Universal Archives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to lorna for looking over this for me! i hope you enjoy this chapter, it's was so fun to write and indulge my worldbuilding desires

#  VIII.

They’re two of the galaxy’s best pilots and the acknowledgment that there’s anyone even close to their skill set is more out of Allura’s sweetly chilling mandate to  _ avoid an international incident  _ than it out for respect for their fellow pilots.

The designs are a little different than they used to be. Each of the cockpits is undeniable and irrevocably shaped by the years of intergalactic warfare. Of the pieces of armored flotsam and jetsam that managed to break through Earth’s atmosphere and various other defenses, each and every one of them was stripped to its most essential parts by Sam and Kathleen Holt then re-imagined into the stark white titanium that gives Earth’s airborne forces a look all their own. 

Shiro already charted out the first leg of their journey, and it’s smooth sailing for the most part. But that’s part of the plan too, of course. There’s not much out here in this part of space, but that doesn’t stop Shiro from taking ahold of the controls and showing off a little. He does a quick series of tight barrel rolls, which would be a feat for most other pilots, but for Shiro, Keith knows that this is just him putting the cruiser through her paces to see how she handles. 

“Show off,” Keith says, but it’s more affectionate than anything. 

“Like you wouldn’t do the same,” Shiro says because he knows Keith too well.

“I have no idea what you mean.” 

Shiro snorts. It’s an inelegant, graceless sound, entirely at odds with the image Keith sees him presenting to their team on a day to day basis. But it’s a sound that’s dear to Keith, because it shows him how much Shiro’s let his guard down, now that it’s just the two of them out here without anyone to watch. 

Despite the integrated alien tech—or perhaps because of it—it doesn’t take them long to get their cruiser airborne and headed on their way. Once they’ve broken free of Atlas’s radius, something in Keith’s chest unknots and he feels like he can breathe. There’s no denying that Atlas has her own sort of gravitational pull, orienting her passengers in the vast abyss of space and giving them something like solid ground to stand on. But it’s a relief to break free. Out here, there’s no one to watch them. No one to pretend for. It’s just the two of them and the stars. It’s too easy to lean into the idea that neither of them are playing pretend at all.

Because it’s more vivid than any illusion Keith had imagined, all those years ago. And, oh, he dreamed up so many—so so many. 

There were too many months when the  _ Persephone _ stood empty, like a storybook full of blank pages he couldn’t help but graffiti all over. Only a few thousand meters from campus, Keith could watch from his classroom windows as the Persephone took shape, like a monolithic fossil of a what  _ was  _ rather than a looming time bomb of what would be—what always would have been, despite the ways Keith’s mind tried to divert each and every event. From the husk and bones of metal that Keith could see even when he went into the sweltering courtyard between glasses, eyes glazed over against the sun, hand cupped against his brow, already sticky with sweat, and not just because of the heat.

When it stood there, skeletal, it was all too easy to imagine a library of his own arcing through the spiral of iron beam work; of a whole history of Shiro’s journey to Kerberos with his own name inscribed right beside. Keith, the Garrison’s resident expert in lost causes, couldn’t help but prove everyone there right by becoming one. When Shiro had told him that he was applying for the Kerberos mission, Keith wasn’t surprised. What surprised him more than Shiro’s intent to push both his body and the limits of human exploration, was Keith’s own imagination. The way he would sometimes let himself daydream, nightdream, twilight dream, what it would be like if the two of them were to take to the stars together. To take the stars together, as though despite all the things they’d learned in Mitchell’s boring beyond the limits of the universe metaphysical classes, they’d be able to hold the very stars in their hands if their ships could just get close enough. 

That’s all Keith dreamt of back then. At the time, they’d seemed so much larger than anything his chest could hold; his infuriatingly skinny chest that refused to garner a layer of sleek muscle on it no matter how much time he spent at the gym. No matter how many times Shiro knocked him back to the mat, grin wild, hair plastered to his forehead. What it would be like if he could bulk up enough in time to sit by Shiro’s side while they explored the farthest known edges of the universe. While they made history together. Back then it had seemed like such an impossible, far-reaching dream—now it only seemed like a quaint fairytale when held next to where they’d actually ended up. And Keith knew that all he wanted was to have Shiro by his side for as long as possible. 

That was then and this is now. Somehow, despite everything that’s happened between those two points of time, side by side part of things hasn’t changed.

Despite all they've been through in the past couple days, that very thought makes something in Keith's chest unwind. He flexes his fingers. The new gloves Shiro got him for his birthday are still a little stiff, a little too new to have molded themselves around Keith's palms the way he likes, but it's okay.  It's worth it to flex the buttery but slightly stiff leather and remember how Shiro had handed him a small, brightly colored package, too neatly wrapped to be his own handiwork, and said, with a warm if slightly apologetic smile  _ it's not much, Sam’s still working on getting my accounts unfrozen—apparently it's harder to come back from legal death than physical one—but since I apparently missed three years of birthdays due to space magic, I thought this was the least I could do. _

And as many times as Keith tried to tell him that it wasn't necessary, that it wasn't necessary, and that Shiro didn't have to get him anything, Shiro had pressed the box back into his hands, gentle but firm and finally said:  _ take it, you could use a new pair anyway _ .

Keith hadn't known what he meant until he opened the box, and saw a fresh but familiar pair of gloves inside. And Shiro had told him, excited and pleased, about how he'd talked with Matt and Pidge about modifying them so that they'd work better with Keith's bayard. The black bayard, the one that some part of Keith always thought of as Shiro's and probably always would. 

(Keith appreciates the extra thought, he really does, but more than that he appreciates that even though the gloves are stiff now, there’s a promise in them—that both Keith and Shiro will be around long enough to see them creased and supple once again.)

“Keith?” Shiro says, shocking Keith out of his memories with a gentle hand curled around his shoulder. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Keith says, with a smile he knows is less than convincing. It’s the way the corner of his mouth twitches where it should curl. 

“Okay,” Shiro says leaving his hand exactly where it is. It's a familiar gesture between the two of them; Keith shouldn't be so aware of the weight, the warmth. He should have built up some kind of immunity by now. Like one of those buy ten get one free cards from the Captain Bloghurt’s Freezy Brain Time chains Lance keeps insisting they go to for “group bonding”. But, when has his life ever followed the path it should? 

It's a question and response he doesn't want to look at too closely. The ease of it all. So instead he shrugs, gently dislodging Shiro's hand. It falls back to Shiro's side, dangling limp. Keith keeps his eyes trained on the stars in front of him. Despite that, he can  _ feel _ the way Shiro’s face falls. Even though just a moment earlier, Keith had felt flush with the knowledge that Shiro still trusted him this much, this time it only brings another wave of guilt crashing over him. His emotions had only been at low tide, waiting for the inevitable push and pull to make them swell back to full strength once again. 

Something like hurt flashes across Shiro's face for a moment before it smooths out again. It's so fast that Keith's not entirely sure he saw it at all. If it were anyone other than Shiro, he wouldn’t have paid attention in the first place. The thing is that either way it pulls at his guilt like a spool of thread; the idea that he hurt Shiro, the fact that Shiro felt the need to hide that he did. 

Before he can say anything the console beeps. The sense of relaxed one-upmanship disappears in the face of a challenge.

They’re close to the Qualion asteroid belt. Usually, the two of them would be fighting it out for who got to take the first go at weaving their way through. And there’d be a wrestling match over who got to go second, marker already set, the adrenaline of staring down someone else’s time-shifting either of them into overdrive. But now, the silence hangs between them, thick with the things they haven’t said. Things that could stay between the two of them and the vacuum of space, but even then, they’re things Keith only said when it seemed like the two of them weren’t going to make it out of there and the only other choice was dying without ever saying it at all. 

Shiro’s hand is—it’s not on his shoulder now, but between his shoulder blades. Keith doesn’t let himself think anything of it—he can’t. 

(He can’t think about walking through the narrow, grey halls of the Atlas, Shiro’s hand pressed to the small of his back like that’s where it was always meant to rest.)

Shiro is his best friend. 

_ This is fine _ , Keith tells himself as he turns his head. He can’t keep a smirk from arcing across his lips as he says. “Age before beauty.” 

“You brat,” Shiro says. 

“So? What are you gonna do about it? Gonna watch me dodge these asteroids like I’m standing still, or would you rather watch me dust your time  _ and _ your pride.”

Shiro doesn't answer him with words, instead, his prosthetic moving faster than Keith expected, wrapping around the front of Keith’s shoulders and pinning him to Shiro’s chest. 

“What were you saying?” Shiro says. Like this, the warmth from Shiro's body is enough that Keith feels it even through his Marmora armor, which is built to let the wearer remain aware of their surroundings at all times, which means temperature sensitivity. 

It really doesn’t help that Shiro’s wearing a Marmora suit as well. Kolivan had given one to him with—well, not quite a smile, but not exactly a frown, either, which was as close to approval as Keith’s ever seen Kolivan give anything. Just letting Shiro wear the uniform at all was a huge deal, and Keith couldn’t help but feel his chest swell with pride as Shiro held the suit in his hands. 

“Is this all you’ve got?” Keith says because he’s tempting fate and he knows that if he just—

He twists in Shiro’s grip, kicking out with his leg so that his foot clips the back of Shiro’s knee and puts him off balance for long enough for Keith to wrench himself free. He puts enough distance between them that his back faces towards the console. The ship’s automatic guidance system was set to stop before they hit the Qualion asteroid belt and Keith suspects that Shiro did that on purpose when they entered the coordinates for their destination. 

“Oh you mother--”

“You asked for it,” Shiro says. His face lights up with the sort of cocky smile Keith hadn’t realized just how much he missed until now. It’s like he’d been digging his nails into the pale, ghostly after-image of a Shiro that hadn’t existed since the  _ Persephone _ had broken atmosphere, never a replacement for the Shiro that was really here, right there in front of him, but as a sort of a shrine to the version of him that had set Keith’s life on an entirely unexpected course. 

The one that had taken off for the stars with a well-loved smile that never fully returned; neither the smile or the man wearing it. 

“That’s right, I did, so don’t hold back on me,” Keith says through narrowed eyes. Shiro never went easy on him all the times they went for “extracurricular flying practice” but now things are a little different. He’s changed. They both have. He knows Shiro’s strong, has always known it, but right now he’s thinking of the version of Shiro that held his own for a year in the gladiatorial pits at the heart of Zarkon’s empire—with Zarkon’s power at its zenith, on the verge of holding the entire universe under his thumb. 

Shiro lunges at him almost before Keith finishes the sentence, arms around his middle like a vice, tackling to the cold, metal floor of the cruiser. Keith’s glad that they’d chosen not to take Black. Not only was Shiro more comfortable on neutral ground, but there’s a good chance that Black would decide that now was a perfect time to weigh in when it  _ definitely _ isn’t. At this point, there are too few boundaries between the paladins and their Lions for Keith to be _ thinking  _ about the kinds of things he is. Not to mention some ill-advised...personal time...had really thought him better. 

And then it’s Keith, back to the floor, lying underneath Shiro, like he’s imagined far too many times when he’s lying alone beneath his sheets, both hands under the covers seeking pleasure he knows he should probably feel guilty about but can’t find the energy for. 

The fact is that he can feel every line of Shiro’s body where it’s pressed against his and although they’ve sparred before, and have been in this position plenty of times, Shiro’s been touching him so much more recently. Enough that it’s like a static charge has built up beneath Keith’s skin and all it takes is for one more touch to give him a shock. It’s Keith’s own fault—he’s the one who gave Shiro permission.

(And he’d give him permission again.)

(But this is more than just one touch. And as much as Keith’s trained for hand to hand combat against opponents stronger than him, as much as he’s spent hours drilling his body so that his reflexes are faster than whoever he’ll face in the future, all of that goes dead, drowned out in static, silenced by everything aside from the sound of Shiro’s heartbeat.) 

Once again, Keith finds himself close to Shiro with an unbridgeable silence between them. But it’s different this time, in a way that Keith can’t name—at least not when it comes to finding the words for both sides of the equation. He’s not even sure he can find the correct expression for his own side of the equal sign.

To their left the console beeps again.

“Guess it’s age before beauty after all,” Keith says. He knows that it’s just a joke—a joke that  _ he’s _ making—but there’s part of him that can’t help chafing against the idea that Shiro’s anything other than the most beautiful person he’s ever seen. It hurts to pretend otherwise.

“Guess so,” Shiro says, but it’s not really an answer. He doesn’t move. 

Keith doesn’t know how much longer he can take being pinned like this, and not even due to anything other than the complicated knot of his emotions, that have tangled themselves into an even nastier snarl. “First or second then?” 

“What?” Shiro says. His eyes, a deep grey that sets Keith at ease and on edge all at once, look far away. They’re distant, cloudy like there’s something—or someone, part of Keith’s mind hisses—that’s keeping his attention occupied. He pushes it away. 

(Because even if there is someone, it’s not any of Keith’s business until Shiro decides that whoever they are is something he wants to share. All Keith’s ever wanted since he met him was for Shiro to be happy, and whatever it takes for that to happen, Keith is ready to stand by his side for whatever that means, for as long as Shiro wants him there.)

(But Keith’s brain can’t help the split-second realization that there’s a big difference between  _ by his side _ and  _ beside him.)  _

“First or second?”

“First,” Shiro says, clarity coming back into his eyes. “I already know I’m gonna win.” 

And there it is again, that cocky grin like an old familiar sweater shoved to the back of the wardrobe because it held too many bittersweet memories. It’s still the same still sweet and bitter now that it’s all too easy to catalog the ways it no longer fits. 

“That’s what you think,” Keith tosses back. He’s more nerves than nerve. The truth is that he doesn’t know how this is going to turn out. And that’s exciting, a way that uncertainty hasn’t been for the past several years.

Not only that, but there’s a soft thrill at seeing Shiro in the pilot's seat like this. Sure, they’d switched off flying when they’d been on their last mission together, but that was different. This is them taking a detour. This is flying against one another for the thrill of it, for the yardstick for how far both of them have come.

And for bragging rights, of course. 

Shiro’s sure and steady behind the controls. His dexterous and nimble hands dance over the console. It’s unusual for him, but Keith doesn’t even keep track of what, exactly, Shiro’s doing. He’s lost to something else, spellbound by the sure strokes of Shiro’s fingers, of the way he always seems to know what to do. Of the way that watching him fly has always seemed a little bit like magic that Keith was borrowing for a little while, for as long as Shiro would have him. 

And then Shiro’s taking a hold of the controls for real. Keith straps himself into the co-pilot's seat at his side, the seat that he’d always imagined himself filling before everything had turned into life or death, aliens and peril, victory or the end of the universe. 

It’s something that he hasn’t let himself imagine since then, but there’s a thrill in getting to live it now when everything around it has changed shape so many times it may as well be a triangle to the circle of the original mold. 

“Ready?” Shiro says. 

_ Whenever I’m with you, always. _ Keith nods and keeps his mouth shut.

And then they’re off. 

 

 

#  IX.

They arrive at the Universal Archives flushed and smiling. Keith won. He beat Shiro’s time by just a few seconds. While they’ve both piloted Black, Keith’s turn as the Red paladin is what ultimately gave him the edge, weaving his way through the asteroid belt with ease. The Universal Archives seems empty, at first. Nothing but a barren surface of dark purple rock. 

It’s not hard for Keith to imagine that no one’s lived here for a long time—at least not once the Galra decided they wanted it. As the victor, Keith gets the honor of guiding their ship in for the landing. Shiro gets the pleasure of watching him, brows drawn together in concentration, a little sliver of tongue poking out between his lips, the flushed red tips of his ears peeking through the mess of dark hair, already falling out of its braid. Shiro still has vivid memories of the way Keith’s hands wove the strands together, deft and sure, bringing a semblance of order to chaos. Back when Keith was a cadet, more than half of his code of conduct violations were due to his hair. He never used to braid it before he spent time with the Blades. 

Shiro wonders if he could learn how to braid Keith’s hair; if Keith would let him. 

Keith brings them down smoothly, landing exactly according to Coran’s coordinates.

It’s so empty there’s not even a tumbleweed for effect. Shiro thought that maybe the planet was just keeping its secrets from them while they were at a distance, it doesn’t seem like it’s giving them anything more now that they’re here. 

“Some welcoming committee,” Keith says. He keys in the commands so that the ship will power down once the outer door seals behind them.

“Yeah,” Shiro says. There’s something about how eerily silent the place is that sets his teeth on edge. “Stay close and cautious. Coran is a good resource, he doesn’t always have the most recent information.” 

“Yeah no kidding,” Keith says just as the airlock opens. The more recent data they’d gotten from their allies said that the air here should be breathable, as did Pidge’s scanners, so they’re able to walk out on to the odd rocky purple surface unimpeded. The air smells like sour iron. “Are you sure we have the right place?” 

Shiro wants to snort, just to lighten the mood. But he stops himself at the last moment and instead he flashes Keith his most apologetic smile then leans over to elbow Keith gently in the ribs. “No, but it’s not like there’s much else in this system. I don’t think we could have gotten it mixed up with another planet.” 

Keith scowls. It’s a familiar look.  _ Stop coddling me. _

Keith takes the first steps onto the bone dry surface. At first, there’s absolute silence, not even the whispers of wind to suggest that anything exists here at all other than rock. But then he hears it, a quick, quiet clicking, almost like a lock sliding into place. Keith pauses, and he’s about to take a few steps more when something tells Shiro that that would be a bad idea. He circles his prosthetic around Keith’s forearm, grateful for the extra strength since it allows him to still Keith immediately and with little effort. And just maybe, out of enthusiasm, he grabs Keith just a little too tight. 

“What are you doing?” Keith hisses.

“Just. Wait a second,” Shiro says. The clicking doesn’t stop, if anything, it just gets louder. It keeps building and building until it's more of a creak than a click. Shiro tightens his grip on Keith's arm and pulls him closer before he even realizes what he's doing. 

“What the hell—” Keith starts. But before he can get out the rest of his sentence the ground opens up in front of them, like a gaping maw, just waiting to catch the two of them off guard and swallow them whole. Despite the fact that the planet still seems empty, there’s an eerie, ominous buzzing threading through blood, keeping time with his heartbeat. But the Universal Archives have retained the bones and beliefs of civilizations long since ground to dust—they have no patience for Keith’s sudden startling. He swallows, trying to drown the itch at the back of his throat. 

The ground before them keeps moving, revealing a broad, winding staircase made out of the same mysterious purple stone as the rest of the planet.

“Well, I guess we know how to get in now. If we still want to.” Shiro says. Shiro can't put his finger on why but the stillness and silence all around them has made this place feel foreboding—like it's a warning. 

Keith turns to look at him, “we’re already here, we might as well go inside.” He runs a thumb over the handle of his Marmoran blade. “And if there is anything worth worrying about in there, I'm pretty sure the two of us together will be able to handle it.”

“Yeah, alright,” Shiro says. Something here still feels off but there's not enough tangible evidence to support it. “I'll go first, age before beauty after all.” 

“Hey!” Keith says, He sounds more like he's holding back laughter than outrage, he follows hot on Shiro's heels. To be honest, his determination to keep up reminds Shiro a little of when they used to race each other through the desert to the west of the Garrison. 

When they got back to Earth they'd have to see if they could find two bikes and get a rematch. 

Despite the fact that both of them have learned to tread lightly out of necessity, their footsteps echo like thunder. Despite their utter lack of, well, stealth, no one comes running. It's as still as its been since the ground cracked apart beneath them. 

Shiro has some theories as to why, exactly, this place is abandoned, but none that he wants to consider while they're still in the bleached dried bones of someone else's civilization. 

As soon as they reach the bottom of the stairs, Keith can’t help himself—he starts coughing. 

“What’s—” and then Shiro breaks off into coughing, too. Well, at least they’ve learned on thing: there must be some way that air circulates through here or else there’s no way that it would accumulate this level of dust during a period of abandonment.

“Guess no one’s cleaned in here in a while,” Keith wheezes once he’s managed to stop coughing enough to speak. He’s still doubled over, his voice a little hoarse, but he’s talking.

“Yeah, guess so,” Shiro manages. Since he went first, he got the worst of it. At least, that's what he'd thought, but when he's able to stand up completely, Keith is still bent in half, resting his hands on his knees, chest heaving against the sleek black lines of his Marmora armor while he works on regaining his breath. A few minutes after Shiro feels well enough to explore, Keith's just managed to stand upright. His face is flushed, the brilliantly rosy hue starkly visible against his pale skin. It's not that surprising that all the blood rushed to his face, but it is slightly surprising that when Shiro asks  _ ready to go  _ that Keith says  _ yes _ so quickly.

The cavernous room they've found themselves in is dim. Though Shiro can see a shard of light from the doors high above them, the rest of the structure seems to be completely underground. As of right now, the only things lighting their way are the slender glowing strips that run up the front and sides of their Marmora armor. 

They make their way deeper, careful and cautious, constantly aware that even with Keith's superior night vision, the dark is deep and vast and puts them at a constant disadvantage. But they came here for a reason. Both of them are too stubborn to turn back at this point—and both of them know it.

Soon enough, the high ceiling above them tapers to a smooth arch that's only five feet higher than Shiro's head.  The hall—tunnel, really—is brighter than the last one, and more light floods their eyes, turning the room dim and dull until their eyes adjust. The scene levels out and Shiro realizes that they've arrived in an arboretum. Or what looks like it might have been an arboretum, once, before whoever tended to it stopped bothering maintaining it. There are a few plants and trees that almost look like they've been turned into stone, fossilized to their roots, like an eerie formerly organic museum.

They keep moving. 

There's another long hallway covered in murals, a huge atrium with excruciatingly lifelike statues and then, finally, they're at a room filled entirely with books and scrolls. Even though most of them are in scripts neither Shiro or Keith can read, the universal translator in their Marmora suits do most of the work for them.

They both pull a few from the shelves and start flipping through them. The paper is different to any that Shiro’s ever felt before, slick and silky even as it’s also slightly brittle from who-knows-how-many years sitting in the dark, untouched. Time passes unmarked aside from the sound of one of them pulling a new book or scroll from the shelves. Or the eerie crack of thunder that’s one of them rising from the benches and mentioning that they’re going to head to another section. They must have been here for hours by the time that Keith wanders over to curl a hand around Shiro’s bicep, warm and familiar. 

“Look at this,” Keith says, shoving the book under Shiro’s nose. It’s faded and a little tattered in a way that few books here are, preserved fairly well despite the passage of time. This one looks like it’s been hand-drawn in brightly colored inks, and while everything here looks and feels heavy with the passage of time, this one looks like it was already that way when the others were first printed. 

It takes a moment, but Shiro realizes that even though they’re on an alien planet, this is familiar—at least the idea of it is. “They’re fairytales,” Shiro says, smoothing a palm over the page. It’s rougher than the others and feels like it may dissolve beneath his fingers at any moment.

Keith’s smile is a little smile but more wistful than anything else. “They’re Galra fairytales,” he says, running a thumb over the corner of the page.

From a moment in history when mythology and culture and bedtime stories had a place in Galra culture.  His fingers bump against Shiro’s own, and Shiro holds himself as still as possible, desperate not to betray the way that that smallest touch is enough to send a shower of sparks dancing across his skin. 

Keith pulls Shiro with him to one of the long, stone tables arranged every twenty meters or so throughout the room. They both sit on the same side, thighs pressed together, the warmth of Keith’s body heat drawn into sharper focus by the cool, smooth stone beneath the two of them. 

It seems like there’s one in particular that Keith’s looking for, because he flips through pretty quickly, only pausing for a moment to scan the page and determine that it’s not what he’s looking for before he keeps moving. Finally, he stops at a page with two figures drawn in great, luxurious detail, one of them taller than the other, the shorter one standing in front of a moon, and the taller one before a sun. They hold hands, but the artist somehow managed to make it look like they were straining to keep hold of one another. In the background, Shiro can see the shadows of what must be their enemies, wispy, towering figures, almost like living smoke, outlined in vivid red. Around the two men's palms, there’s a golden cord, wound around their joined hands and snaking up their arms like a vine-like a living thing. Even though the two of them carry swords at their waists, neither of them lets go for a moment despite that fact that it’s clear their enemies are gaining on them. 

Shiro’s so caught up in examining the detail of the illustration, that it takes him a moment to tear his eyes away and start scanning the words on the facing page. It’s—

“Once upon a time,” Keith says, voice soft and hoarse and full of emotion—longing, wistfulness, joy, and something else Shiro’s not sure how to qualify. “There were two men—not much more than boys when they met. Talkor, the older one, was the jewel of the realm, the envy of every knight in the kingdom. Ilek, the younger of the two grew up alone from a young age, bullied by his peers for his advanced abilities until Talkor happened to run into him one day during a local wrestling match, and was so impressed with Ilek’s abilities that he invited him to train at that palace to become a knight. Ilek didn’t believe him at first, and because he thought that Talkor had to be making fun of him—after all, that’s what the others did, and no one had ever proven Ilek’s assumptions unearned. 

Until Talkor. 

Even though they were from different backgrounds, the two found kindred spirits in one another—best friends, brothers in arms, far outstripping the abilities of anyone else in their circle, equaled only by one another. Ilek still didn’t get along well with the others in his class, but with Talkor as his friend, it didn’t matter—Talkor was the sun he orbited around, brilliant and beautiful and generous to a fault. Ilek would do whatever it took to make sure that nothing in the world took any of that away from him. In his heart, Ilek felt that there was no way that he could ever repay Talkor’s kindness in full, but he would spend the rest of his life trying if necessary. It looked as though they’d continue that way, at one another’s sides, until their time was over. Until Talkor was chosen to lead an expedition to far off lands. They exchanged promises, to explore beyond even Talkor’s current destination once Talkor returned. But Talkor never did.” 

Keith’s voice wavered for a moment before he continued reading. “Ilek refused to accept that Talkor was gone and set off on his own, out into the Eastern Wastes. Year later, Ilek returned with Talkor in tow, an army at their heels. Talkor had been captured by an evil witch, who’d changed him beyond recognition. Except for Ilek, who would recognize Talkor like the beat of his own heart. He freed Talkor and they fled for safety, but the witch and her army of wraiths followed them, moving faster than should have been possible, forcing Ilek and Talkor to go with little rest for days on end. Finally just as they arrived at the borders of their Kingdom, the witch caught up with them. The witch and her wraiths surround them. And while Talkor and Ilek could have gotten out if one of them sacrificed themselves for the other’s freedom, both refused to leave one another behind. And so, they chose to face one another, perhaps for the last time, clasping one another’s hands, knowing that whatever fate was approaching them, they’d made the right choice: each other.” 

Keith stops again and runs a thumb over the last few lines of the page, but doesn’t say anything more. 

Shiro leans closer—for some reason, one that he doesn’t want to look at too closely—he can’t make himself believe that this is where Ilek and Talkor’s story ends. 

And it doesn’t. The lines beneath Keith’s finger—

Shiro continues the story where Keith left off. “Ilek and Talkor faced their fate together, and although the battle could be seen from the palace battlements, neither Ilek or Talkor ever returned to the kingdom. But, soon after that day, a new constellation appeared in the sky, stars that looked like two men, one tall and broad, the other slightly shorter and lean but lithe, clasping one another's hands, facing one another, as though all they needed was each other and the stars.” 

A silence falls between them, after that. It’s not intentional, and it should feel familiar at this point, given that the entire library has stayed coated in silence the entire time that they’ve been there. But this is different. This is the same sort of uncomfortable silence like they’d had in the cruiser earlier. The kind that Shiro doesn’t dare even approach. 

Keith closes the book and gets up from the bench. To anyone else, the motion would look fluid, practiced, but Shiro can see that Keith’s not holding onto his center—at least not completely. 

“Come on, let's see if there’s anything else here before we head back,” Keith says, wandering off before Shiro can respond. 

Shiro’s not sure he’d even know how. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! i have other fics i'm working on next, but you know where to find me if ur thirsting for ch.4 ;)

**Author's Note:**

> [ tumblr](http://spookyfoot.tumblr.com) // [ twitter](http://twitter.com/spooky_foot).
> 
> i've got 21k of this written so depending on how editing goes, updates should be pretty regular. thanks for reading!


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